Traces of White
by Kagurazaka
Summary: Her finger froze mid-trace as she read and re-read the name. As she looked at the painting of the dark-haired boy with unblinking amethyst eyes; staring out at her with an arrogant pride even a faded picture could not temper.


**Traces of White**

Disclaimer: Do not own CG.

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She folded her hands primly on her lap, watching but not listening as the man paced back and forth on the plush Persian carpet – ruining it carelessly with each heavy tread of his shoes. Italian made; mint condition. But expense was not something a man of his caliber worried about.

"Of course," she said in reply to one or another of his prattling. It became her standard answer to his standard chatter about world domination or some sort. Not that that there was much left of the world to dominate. She wondered why her contractors seemed to have megalomania as their standard affliction. Perhaps it was a required trait along with narcissism.

By then the annoying thuds had stopped. "Of course? _Of course?_ Here I am pouring my heart to you about my latest, superbly grand plan and that is the only thing you can think of saying? _Of course?_"

"Of course."

"Bah," he threw his hands up in disgust. "Speaking to you is futile. Meeting at 1800 tomorrow; attend." With that the door opened and closed, and she was alone again.

Noisy man. His bullish ways and pride had always reminded her of someone. Someone who had the same fierce intelligence, the bad taste in theatrics, the smug smirk.

(_who?_)

But then again, most of everything reminded her of something. The strange pang she felt when she saw the picture of lush, rolling green hills in a dirt smeared book. The craving of... something when she saw a half torn cardboard with a red logo and an intelligible word beneath it.

She had salvaged the book and the remnant of the cardboard, cleaned them and placed them on the table by her bed. There was no reason behind the action. No need for justification when she had lived long enough to forget her name.

(_the sound of water and someone saying her name softly. what? who?_)

She lifted the book from its semi-permanent resting place and gently turned the yellowing pages until she found the passage last read.

_Genealogy of the Britannian Imperial Family. _She quirked an eyebrow. Boring. But time was abundant and boredom was something she had learned to live with a long time ago. Still, she skipped over the family tree (which had taken a four page fold out), and went directly to the biography of the most prominent members (accompanied with highly dramatic paintings).

Charles zi Britannia: 98th emperor. 108 consorts. (She could not fathom the hatred she felt – must be the curls.)

Odysseus eu Britannia: first prince. Engaged to the Empress of the Chinese Federation. (Bearded pedophile.)

Clovis la Britannia: third prince. Artist. Clovisland. (Narcissistic, conniving twat.)

Euphemia li Britannia: third princess. Sub-Viceroy of Area 11. Mass killing of civilians. (Psychotic. Thoroughly approved.)

Lelouch vi Bri

Her finger froze mid-trace as she read and re-read the name. As she looked at the painting of the dark-haired boy with unblinking amethyst eyes; staring out at her with an arrogant pride even a faded picture could not temper.

(_if you are a witch_)

She let her finger linger, then traced the outline of his face, his brows, his shoulders.

Once she would have recognized the sudden flutter in her stomach, the dull thumpthump in her breast as anguish

(_then I will become_)

or even

(_become a_)

love.

(_warlock_)

She slid the bookmark between the pages and closed the book, replacing it delicately back onto the table. She ignored the urge to bring her arms around her knees, and instead propped her chin on her hand and looked out from the extravagantly useless floor-to-ceiling window.

Whether she knew him or not was inconsequential. He was just a historical figure from a long ruined kingdom, after all. The past and future simply ceased to hold any importance.

The only important thing: he was dead and she _was not_.

Outside, the blizzard raged on – rendering the ugly ruins of the city as something akin to blurry mosaic pictures. For an odd moment she caught herself thinking that perhaps, perhaps the snow was white because it had forgotten its own color.

She chuckled at the thought. It was white because it reflected beams of white light. Nothing more, nothing less.

Such foolish tangent of the mind.

**End.**


End file.
